He Who Takes the Blame
by jadefyre's freedom
Summary: Sherlock relapses into cocaine use after a fight with John makes him upset.


**Title: **He Who Takes the Blame  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong>Word count: <strong>~2660  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sherlock relapses into cocaine use after an extended fight with John.  
><strong>AN: **Goodness. I started writing this before reading The Sign of Four. I also started writing this without knowing all of the effects of cocaine use and addiction and withdrawal, so I did a lot of on the fly research. This probably isn't how it happens at all, but I tried. I hope it's sad. It's meant to be angsty. If not, well, I guess I can practice. I even read Alone on the Water again to get me in the mood for writing it, but I didn't even cry this time. I made myself not cry I suppose, I came close, but no. Okay, enough about me. Enjoy!  
><strong>WarningDisclaimer: **You now know this is angst. There is sadness. Death looms on the horizon perhaps. Read at your own risk.

John had not spoken to him for days. Sherlock vaguely understood the reasoning, of course. The doctor was angry that Sherlock had said less than pleasant things to Harry, causing her, in turn, to take offense and go out to drink.

"She's been sober for two months!" John yelled at Sherlock.

"She is responsible for her own actions," Sherlock retorted.

John had fallen silent after that. He would not speak to the consulting detective, nor would he answer texts from him.

After three days, he decided that being around Sherlock was only making him angrier. He called his girlfriend Amanda, who allowed him to come and spend a few days.

Sherlock was not used to being actively shunned by John for this length of time. One or two days was normal; the longest had been three. It made Sherlock uncomfortable. The silence was deafening. He went to the grocer and bought two packs of cigarettes and a lighter. Upon exiting, he opened up a package and lit one up. He had finished it and was halfway through another by the time he reached Baker Street. He opened a window to be considerate to Mrs. Hudson.

"When are you coming home?" -SH

No response. Sherlock tapped the ashes into the cigarette tray he had stolen from Buckingham Palace. He lit another. The nicotine felt good, coursing through him.

For hours, he sat. The ashes and cigarette butts piled up.

"Bring milk." -SH

There would be no sleeping for a while. Sherlock tugged on his jacket and looped on his scarf and made his way down the stairs and onto the street. He still had his second pack. He checked his phone for the time. Four am.

He went to familiar territory, though it had been years since he last traversed it.

There stood a lone figure, leaning against a wall.

"Good to see you, mate."

The exchange was quick. Sherlock walked swiftly back to his flat.

Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette he had been working on. He took his framed periodic table of the elements off of his wall. Attached to it was a small leather pouch containing a syringe. He took a deep breath and detached it, then hung up the table once more. It was almost as though he was in a dream. His motions were so fluid and automatic, yet he was fully alert. He had on three nicotine patches in addition to the pack and a half of cigarettes that he had smoked.

He sat down on his bed and filled the syringe. With a well-practiced hand, he located an appropriate vein and plunged the needle in. Within minutes he felt the familiar euphoria of a cocaine-induced high. He opened his eyes wide, his brain processing everything so much more quickly. Why had he ever quit? Mycroft, of course. And Lestrade certainly played a big part. That was when Sherlock had acquired an aversion to riding in police cars. They were associated with rather unpleasant experiences.

He took many stimulants between cases. It helped him to occupy his mind. Lately, however, his stimulants had been legal and in the form of patches and caffeine. Of course, he never stopped making deductions. Mrs. Hudson went downstairs at about six am, and Sherlock noted that her hip was bother her extra today.

Sherlock sat still for another three hours. He had not eaten since John left, which was four days ago. He drank water to benefit his brain, and he was aware that he should consume something. He did not feel hunger, however, so he did not eat.

At ten o'clock, he hit up once more. He missed the feeling he got whenever he reached a high, and despised the depths to which the lows would take him. There were few things that Sherlock was familiar with feeling, and melancholy was one of them.

Mrs. Hudson came in and dropped a load of groceries on the table.

"Sherlock, dear?" she called out.

There was no answer, so she began to put things away in the fridge.

_How odd,_ she noticed. There were not any strange items in the fridge, nor did there seem to be any experiments on the go.

"John?" she called out, though there was no response from him, either. She knew that he and Sherlock were on the outs, so she figured that he was staying with his girlfriend.

In the room down the hall, a consulting detective was shooting up his third hit of the day. As soon as he heard the sweet older woman leave, he was up and out of bed. He disregarded the new supply of nutrition that had been bestowed upon him and went to find the man who would give him what he needed.

By evening, Sherlock had taken five hits of cocaine. The latter two doses were laced with mild amphetamines, though he had done so himself. Dealers were not to be trusted.

Mycroft stopped by while Sherlock was still high. He did not allow Mycroft to enter, however, and the older man did not put up a fight.

John was walking to the grocery store when Anthea stepped out of nowhere and interrupted his thoughts.

"What now?"

"You know the drill," she said.

The car ride was quiet, as usual. Anthea was glued to her phone, and John stared awkwardly out the window.

At last they pulled up to an empty lot, where there waited Mycroft. John stepped out of the car.

"What now? We're having a fight, it's as simple as that."

Mycroft strode over to the army doctor resolutely and pulled John close to him by the collar. "And who is supervising him?" he hissed.

No further explanation was required. Mycroft shoved John away from him. The army doctor was escorted back into the car and driven away.

He was still angry at Sherlock. He had been staying with Harry after the first two nights at Amanda's. It was a feeble attempt to keep her from drinking, but it had been marginally successful. He could go and see Sherlock tomorrow afternoon.

Sherlock had become somewhat incoherent. He was pacing around the flat, back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. There were crashing and banging noises coming from his bedroom, and he imagined that he was five years old again and that there were a thousand beasts waiting to claw at his throat.

He curled up on the couch, arms wrapped around his legs. At one point he hit up for the seventh, eighth, maybe ninth time that day – he had lost count.

He was aware of voices in the hallway. He heard his name spoken in what seemed to him to be the most sinister way possible. The door to the flat was soon blocked off by the table and the chairs. He was a castaway, and his dangerous enemies were attempting to find him and have him hanged for his piracy.

He shoved the leather pouch into a hole in the sofa. After an indeterminable amount of time passed, he found himself on the floor in the dining area where the table had been. Gasping for air, he tried to sit up and could not. And that is when everything went black.

John knew he should go see Sherlock. Harry had forgiven him for the insulting remarks, and had not had anything to drink while John stayed with her.

Finally, John obliged. He first went to see Mrs. Hudson.

"John, dear!" she said excitedly and wrapped him in a warm hug. She did so every time John returned from anything more than an overnight trip.

He stayed for tea and a chat. Mrs. Hudson expressed concern about Sherlock's lack of appetite.

"I hear him up at all hours, too. I don't think he sleeps at all," she said.

John smirked. "Sounds like the Sherlock we all know and love."

Finally, he excused himself and went down to 221B. The door would not budge.

John was on the phone with Mycroft immediately. There was latent panic in Mycroft's voice when he said, "Call Lestrade."

It took quite a bit of doing, but finally the door was broken down. Chairs and the table went flying everywhere. John located Sherlock and was by his side in two seconds flat.

"Call an ambulance!" he shrieked, cursing himself for not thinking to do so sooner. Sherlock's heart was beating erratically.

His eyes were glazed; he was looking at John but not seeing him.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "Sherlock! Can you hear me?"

The consulting detective's head fell back, eyes rolling in the same direction. He started spasming.

John allowed his training to take over; he kept Sherlock's airway open and his heart pumping.

The ambulance arrived and John helped to lift him onto the stretcher and into the vehicle. He travelled with him, as well.

Upon reaching the hospital, everything became a blur. Sherlock was having sever overdose symptoms and John was not sure whether or not the detective would make it out alive.

Finally, after hours of nervously fidgeting, John saw a doctor approach him with a worried face. She was a young thing. John's stomach sank to his knees. He had worn that very mask many times. He knew what it meant, yet he refused to accept it. Sherlock Holmes could not be dead.

"He's very unstable," the doctor said. "We don't know if he'll make it through the night."

John pushed all the air from his lungs in one long sigh of relief. Unstable was not good, but it was not dead either.

"Are you John?"

"Yes," he said. "Why?"

"He pulled off his oxygen mask and was yelling your name repeatedly. He was nearing psychotic, we had to restrain him."

"How... how bad is he?"

"We are allowing his system to cleanse itself. We want to keep him under observation for a day or two."  
>"I'm a doctor," John said. "He's my flatmate. He can come home with-"<p>

The other doctor cut him off. "In the psychiatric ward. So unless you are a psychiatrist, then he is staying here."

John nodded curtly.

Sherlock was unconscious when John entered the room. The nurses had been very reluctant to allow Sherlock any visitors, but John had been adamant nearly to the point of aggression. The army doctor stayed so long that he fell asleep in his chair.

When he awoke, the detective was looking at him intently. His face was unreadable.

"You're stupid," John said. "Stupid. Absolutely mad. You nearly died!" His voice raised considerably with this last exclamation.

Sherlock blinked and his gaze became vacant. "I want out of here. Soon."

"Two more days," John sighed. "Bloody stupid," he muttered.

Sherlock had been handcuffed to the bed so he could not escape. John felt awful for betraying his friend, but when the nurse asked him privately if the detective would be a flight risk, he nodded solemnly. At one point, DI Lestrade paid a visit and sent home a very tired John Watson.

Upon returning home, Sherlock immediately noticed that the place had been ransacked and rearranged.

He glanced toward the couch.

"I want tea," he said plaintively.

"Go sit down, I'll make you some tea," John said with a sigh. Sherlock would be especially irritable for a long while, he knew. He had conversed with Mrs. Hudson, who had teared up.

"Oh, Sherlock," she had said, covering her mouth.

"I need to stay with him at all times. Would you...?"

"Of course I can get your groceries, dear."  
>John kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, much like Sherlock always did.<p>

But now he was making tea for Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. John had his back to him. He located the small slit in the couch fabric and slid his deft fingers inside, smiling when they came in contact with the leather case. John certainly had not done a very good job of searching.

He left the pouch where it was until it was bed time. Then, he slipped it up his sleeve like he had done with pepper spray once or twice.

John seemed assured that there was nothing of interest in Sherlock's room. It, too, had been searched. At least John had not messed up Sherlock's sock index this time.

There would next be the problem of sneaking out, of course. He had used up the last of his cocaine, just before he lost consciousness.

Luckily, John Watson slept upstairs. Sherlock was as quiet as a mouse when he needed to be. The doctor had not even been smart enough to set up booby traps.

Sherlock checked outside. No police cars. No one on watch, either. Perfect.

Fatigue had been plaguing him since his hospitalization, but the anticipation of relief spurred him on. The buildings rushed past as he ran down the road, long strides overtaking the distance between him and his fix.

And when he finally reached his destination, he fell to his knees.

"I knew you'd be back," the dealer said.

Sherlock had had the presence of mine to bring his syringe with him. He departed and ducked into the nearest alleyway he found. He relaxed against the wall behind him as soon as the euphoria hit. He did not care about the physical consequences, he just knew that his body required more and he would give it what it wanted. John was back now, but that didn't matter. The euphoria mattered. Avoiding the lows mattered. If he died, it would be knowing that John was no longer mad. He did not care if he died alone in a dirty alleyway in London.

He did not care if John found him.

He cared about the cocaine.

An hour passed. Two hours. Sherlock did not even bother trying to get up. He allowed his heightened mental abilities to do their work in the form of working with troublesome details of cases that remained unsolved.

Sherlock's arm was full of fresh puncture wounds. He realized that he should make his way home before John realized he was missing.

London never slept, but John certainly did. He would have no trouble getting into the flat quietly once more.

Save for the fact that he had forgotten his key and was locked out. He never made it home that night.

John found him, the next morning. He had come downstairs and immediately checked Sherlock's bedroom. It was lacking of a certain consulting detective.

The army doctor was down the stairs and out the door before you could say "deduction."

It was early morning. People were not yet flooding the streets. John did not know where the detective had gone, but he did not have far to look.

A familiar shoe was poking out of an alleyway just past the bakery.

Sherlock was in the midst of trying to find another vein, but he had missed and had broken the tip off of his needle. He lay on his side, shivering and damp. He had vomited, John noticed in passing.

He held the detective in his arms, resting his head upon his lap. "Shh," John said. He pulled out his phone and dialled the police, and an ambulance.

"Shh."

Sherlock stared up at him with empty-looking eyes. His face was white, and he was breathing rapidly.

"John, I'm sorry," he croaked.

The next minutes were surreal. Sherlock went limp in John's arms, and he stared out into the street. The ambulance arrived. Lestrade arrived. The whole city seemed to be converging at 221 Baker Street.

This was John's fault. He had let Sherlock out of the apartment. He had slept while the detective was running amok and self-destructing.

He was responsible for the dying man in his arms, and that weight would forever be borne upon his shoulders.

"No, Sherlock. I'm sorry," John said as Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective, took his last breath.


End file.
